


Mad About the Boy

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Femdom, Foot Massage, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Playful Sex, Snowballing, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Craig and  Carla, warm and loving. Little peeks at happiness. (Pre-game.)</p><p>(Kmeme fills; no larger plot or story. Sorry!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mad About the Boy

It all started when her dance slipper broke.

The flimsy pink strap had been sewn and recovered in feathers and sequins many times over, and the little thing wasn’t new, really—just new to Carla.

But it broke when she took one dainty step too many, and slipped off her foot.

Craig, dear boy, immediately dove for it, heedless of his freshly-laundered pants as his knee hit the Freeside grime, kneeling before her like Cinderella’s prince as he offers it out.

“Miss Carla? I’m real sorry about that—“ God, he’s cuter than a newborn puppy, all oversized paws and stumbling eagerness to please. That white shirt just a little too tight across the shoulders, his upturned face so woeful—she can’t resist smiling, and interrupts him with a chuckle.

“Least it did this _after_ we finished, hm? Besides, it’s worth it to see you on your knees,” she adds with a sly smile, wrapping her fingers about his wrist to gently pull him back up.

He blushes so cutely, red crawling across his face and staining his ears.

“If that’s what you want—uh, sure!” So eager to please. “Any time, you just say the word!”

 

* * *

 

‘Any time’ ends up being the next weekend Craig has leave. Her boy, her sweet boy—‘love’ might be too strong a word just yet, but oh, he makes her heart sing, stronger and smoother than any crooner Mr New Vegas might call up. But she loves the way he loves her, with eyes brighter than all the New Vegas lights.

Dinner, drinks and dancing—a typical night out. Nothing special, other than the company of course. Craig’s real cute, which has nothing to do with his face—because that forehead is sure aiming to become a five-head—and everything to do with those broad shoulders and the calluses on his hands, the way he still stammers all tongue-tied when she gives him the lightest flirt. Definitely some perks to dating a younger man.

So they tumble into one another’s arms like dominoes falling as she kisses the underside of his chin, and his hand hovers uncertainly at her back, wanting but not daring to touch until she finally laughs and whispers “it’s okay, hon. Touch me everywhere” and then he squeezes her ass, gripping just at the curve so she melts against him and it takes several blind stabs with her keys before she reluctantly turns aside, murmuring “let’s not make this a free show…”

He’s so cute when he blushes.

So she finally slides the key in the lock, clicking it open and enters with Craig following her like an eager shadow. One final check to make sure she locked the door—because no matter how lovely and wonderful the evening was so far this is still the _Wasteland_ —and then she presses him to the wall, twisting his shirt in her hand and mock-growling into his ear.

“You said ‘anytime.’ On your knees. Is that still what you want?” she whispers, letting her breath tickle the bristles on the back of his neck.

Craig does his best impression of a tomato, nodding frantically around a choked grunt (or maybe a groan) as he obediently starts crumpling. But they’re too close, his body pressing against hers and she feels the fleshy swell of his cock against her belly before he stops.

“Y-yes, miss Carla.”

“Okay then. Follow me to that chair.”

And he does, near bouncing with delight, like he’s going to burst out of his skin with excitement. She sits down carefully, precisely, arranging the folds of her skirt around her like the petals of a flower with her knees demurely tucked to the side in that massive overstuffed armchair. She’s always meant to trade it out or get it reupholstered once she saved up the caps or the time, but for now the bright yellow daisies on faded green make a suitably floral throne for her, queen of the flowers in her yellow dress, with Craig her eager servant.

He stands before her, eyes bright but shoulders hesitant, hands clasped behind him like he stepped off some NCR recruiting poster. He’s her own personal soldier-boy, not only obedient but _eager_ to be commanded.

“Strip for me,” she says, crossing her ankles and leaning back. He grins at her, teeth bright against the tan of his face. His eyes are so pale, circles of flesh marking the glasses he wears so often when away from her and off doing whatever things the army makes him do. He reaches for the back of his shirt with one hand, and if he weren’t so _adorable_ , so bumbling and inexperienced, she’d think he’s flexing—but no, that’s just the bulge of his bicep as he peels the thin cotton from his skin. He’s got some mighty fine tan lines, his arms gone red-copper while his belly stays cream-white, but that’s part of the charm. These are the parts of him that no one else gets to see, not even the sun. There’s a tiny bit of softness around his belly, lingering puppy fat that maybe no amount of training or NCR rations will ever get rid of, but she likes her men with a little padding. There’s precious enough softness out in this world.

His shirt drops to the floor, and then he starts fumbling with his belt. His shaking hands make this more troublesome than it really should be, so she quips “does it take you this long to get dressed in the morning?” and is gratified by his cherry-red blush and stammering “ _no,_ miss Carla” as he finally manages to get the recalcitrant leather to release its hold. Tossing it aside like a venomous snake, he then unzips his pants, stepping out of them. But the dear boy forgot to take his boots off first, so Carla is treated to his adorable consternation as he frantically pulls at the laces, yanking the shoes off as if they have done him a personal injury. They hit the floor with a thud, and she has to swallow her giggles as he finally— _finally_ —gets those pants off.

Standing before her now in nothing but his socks and briefs—and she wouldn’t have thought him to be a briefs man, but she does like the bulge they make—he finally hooks his thumbs under the waistband, pulling them down. He reaches for his socks, but stops when she gives a brief shake of her head.

“Keep those on. It’s cute.” Nibbling her lower lip and devouring him with her eyes, she thinks about all the things she’d _love_ to do. “So… you like being bossed around?”

He nods frantically.

“Being spanked?”

Another eager nod, his cheeks turning pink.

“Anything you don’t like?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh honey, either you’ve got a _really_ limited imagination,” and he colors red, “or you’re much kinkier than I gave you credit for.” She leans forward, resting her elbows lightly against the arms of her chair. “Just tell me if you change your mind or anything becomes uncomfortable, okay?”

“Yes’m,” he mumbles.

“Okay then. Bend over the arm here.” She pats the chair for emphasis, gratified as he immediately comes over, resting his forearms against the cushioned surface. Their eyes meet, and he looks so wide-eyed with wonder that she can’t resist kissing his nose. Some sweet before she starts the sting, and she trails lower, brushing over his lower lip and nipping slightly, tugging and sucking until he moans against her mouth. They breathe warm against another, and this could be _nice_ if this was all they did, but a hard man is good to find and it seems a waste to skip straight to the sex. Whatever girls or boys he tumbled before, she bets none of them spanked him red and begging for more.

She doesn’t know if she wants to _keep_ the boy yet, but at least they can have some good times.

So she pulls away, and he nearly falls over the armrest as he tries following with his mouth.

“Careful there. I’m just going to stand up for a bit, so get yourself ready.” She runs her palm over his bare ass, resting one hand against the gentle curve and the other on the small of his back so that he can feel her presence, reassuringly close as her skirt brushes against his thigh. He shivers, his flesh pale and vulnerable in contrast to the burnt gold of his sun-kissed regions. Lightly, she begins—gentle slaps with her fingertips, tiny little percussive strikes almost soothing in their monotony, hard enough to make his ass jiggle but with little sting. He sighs, relaxing under her touch, and has only a brief warning as the tension flows through her fingers, bracing the hand on his ribs as her other swings back for a hard slap that echoes through the small apartment.

And he yelps like the new girl in a brothel, jumping in shock, only to catch himself against her couch as he shivers.

“Oh baby, was that too hard?” she asks, caressing the red mark with her hand. She loves the aftermath of a good spank, the way his skin tingles and the warmth rising off his body, cinnamon-sweet and burning.

“N-no, miss Carla. Just wasn’t expecting it,” he mumbles. She sneaks a look at his face, and he’s rose-pink and blushing fit to make her grin.

“Are you expecting it now?”

“Yes’m. I can take it.” His toes twitch, tiny fidgety movements just visible through his socks, and he arches his back, offering a clear target once more. “So please, keep doing that. I really like it.”

“I _love_ how eager you are, baby,” she coos in his ear, trailing her tongue into the hollow just behind the lobe and blowing softly. He shivers as the cool air strikes his skin, but with a wide, goofy smile that shows just how much he loves this. So she pulls her hand back again, using the thin slice of her nails to trace patterns over his buttocks before releasing another hard smack. He groans, biting his lip to restrain any louder reactions, but does not flinch.

Honestly, this is her favorite part—just the gentle rhythm of her palm against flesh, all warm sensation and pornographic gasps as he squirms below her. She starts at the plump center of his ass, moving each spank over just a few inches until she’s covered the entire width of his right cheek before switching back so the left receives its fair share. He moans under each blow, feet staggered and his hips sliding forward until—

\--well, that’s cute, but not what she wants.

“Craig, baby, don’t hump the armchair. I want you nice and sensitive for me, and all that’s gonna do is chafe your dick,” she scolds, planting her hand on her hip, knuckles digging into her waist like a schoolmarm in full fury.

He gulps, guilty as a schoolboy and tightening his grip on the fabric. “Sorry miss Carla.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how much are you enjoying this?”

His toes wriggle again—and that’s really so cute, it’s like they’re tiny little puppies wriggling under a blanket—before he tentatively says, “Eleven?”

“Points for enthusiasm, but that’s not from one to ten,” she says with mock severity. “But I believe you.” She steps back, skirt swirling about her knees as she twists from her hips, swiveling so she gets her entire torso into her next strike.

 _Thwack!_ And his body arcs, Boone singing with pain as tears wash across his eyes.

“That’s one,” she says, sweet and slow like honey dripping off the comb. “We have ten more to go, baby. Count for me.” She slaps again, hard enough for her own hand to sting, and she puffs cool air across her skin to soothe it as Boone groans “ _two.”_ Letting it build is as much sweet torment for her as for him, Craig hissing “ _three, four—_ ouch! _Five!_ ” as the blows rain down in rapid succession, layers of heat across his flesh while she paints fresh pain over the reddened skin. Then she stops, tracing cool knuckles across his tender ass as he shivers, though she never offers quite enough contact to fully calm the burn.

“Ready, sweets?”

His cheeks match each other, his ferocious blush rivaling the crimson of his ass. “Yeah. Real ready.” He even musters enough courage to wiggle a little, his elbows digging into the cushion as he tenses.

“Relax, hon. It feels nicer when you just ease into it…” she murmurs in his ear, breathing hot against him. He shudders, exhaling slowly. With him ready once more, she resumes. But slow and sweet this time, taking care to squeeze the buttock after each lingering blow, aiming just slightly upward like flipping a pancake. He continues counting, breathing raggedly after each syllable until he finally reaches “ _eleven!”_ with a sigh as he collapses into the armrest, radiating heat against her thigh.

“Baby, you _better_ not be too tired yet,” she laughs, snapping her fingers in mimicry of the flashier gamblers calling for a cocktail waitress. “You haven’t even _begun_ to get on your knees for me, boy. Mama wants oral.” One last pat on the ass, finishing with a lingering caress, and she swoops to grab his shirt. No sense in messing up the chair, and she likes the idea of sending him home smelling of her. So she lays it flat over the cushion, then sits back with her ankles crossed as Craig kneels in front of her. He chews his lower lip, tiny lines forming as he crinkles his eyebrows questioningly.

“I want _you_ to take my panties off,” she explains. “Nice and slow. Start at my feet…” He obeys quietly, laying reverent hands over her ankle, just above the high-heeled shoes she’s wearing, and traces his thumbs up the line of her calf, cupping behind the bend of her knee and then—hesitant, gentle, looking up at her for permission before she whispers, “it’s okay, keep going—I _asked_ you to take my panties off, remember?”—he slides his palms up to her inner thighs. She releases a slow, shuddering sigh, rolling her head back and lifting her hips in invitation. A gentle squeeze, like testing a ripe peach, and then he circles over her skin to loop his fingers through the band of her underwear. Tugging in slow fits and starts, he inches the clothing down her legs, finally pulling it free and carefully setting it aside.

Imperiously, she sits back, knees wide and pulling her skirt over her lap to expose herself. “Okay, come on up. Don’t just go straight for the clit though, work your way around,” she instructs, resting her hands over her breasts as he leans in. His hands feel wonderful against her thighs, gently prying her open as he first kisses the lower swell of her belly, tickling his tongue and his lips down so his breath tickles over the dark curls covering her lips. Then he kisses, closed-mouthed and worshipful before using a broad, flat stroke of his tongue to trace around the outer curve of her sex. Her breathing picks up, knees starting to tense—but he shifts, letting her squeeze tight about his shoulders so his fingers rest against the tender line where her legs meet her groin.

“Tastes good,” he murmurs, and she can’t help laughing, thinking it’s maybe the most over-played line a man can use down there but it warms her heart anyway, especially when he starts blushing again, burying his face against her thigh.

“Oh honey, wasn’t laughing at you,” she fibs.

He peeks at her, side-long and shy, and she can read her sweet boy like a book even if he’s all awkward stumbles when it comes to saying what he means.

“Okay, I was laughing a _little_ at you. But I liked it.” She follows that confession with a gentle hand on his head, rubbing the bristle-edges of his hair with her palm. “I’m sorry for embarrassing you, but it feels real good. Please come back to me?”

“Always, miss Carla,” he murmurs, kissing her inner thigh again before tracing his tongue along her wetness. He works a wide circle, gently spiraling in until he’s kissing her _there_ and her back arches in response, fingers scraping futilely against his scalp because _oh_ there’s nothing to grab as he starts licking, still soft and gentle until he does this _thing_ with his tongue she doesn’t even know how to properly describe, but it’s _nice_ …

“Don’t stop,” she moans, tight and high as she wraps her legs about him, high heels drumming against his back as she squeezes herself close. He’s bright red and she starts to worry maybe she’s gripping too hard but _oh god_ he’s not stopping, and she’s breathing hard, harder, harder until she finally grabs both his ears, pulling him close as she grinds herself against his mouth, kicking her feet as the orgasm washes through her body. Her right shoe flies off to hit the wall but she just doesn’t _care_ , too warm and languid to give a damn about chasing it down right now.

“I did good?” Craig blinks, shy and hesitant even with her juices smeared across his lips.

“Oh baby, you did _great_.” Happy, lazy, and too content to even bother getting up, she pats the side of the armchair. “Baby, come up here. Legs wide… oh yeah, just like that. Straddle my chest.” She kisses the base of his cock, then his balls, dotting her tongue over the warm skin before blowing on the wet spots. He shivers, gripping the back of the chair for balance as she reaches one hand between his legs to pat his ass. “Still sensitive?”

“Y-yeah. A little,” he admits.

“I’ll take care of that. Now just let me know when you’re gonna come…” Her voice trails as she brushes her lips over the tip of his erection, swirling her tongue and taking him in with a shallow suck. Forearms trembling, Craig groans, leaning until she props her arm over his belly to keep him back. Because even if she’s using her mouth—and she thinks she could probably hold the entirety of him on her tongue, since the boy’s nice and thick but not too terribly long—she’s better with her hands. Twisting, stroking over the shaft, she builds up a rapid jerking motion, her hand slapping against his body until he starts groaning, and she can feel the tension through his thighs even before he gasps,

“Gonna, gonna… gonna come soon, Carla…”

“Alright, just a moment,” she groans, pulling her head back and aiming him lower. “Okay, _now_.”

He comes immediately, as if he had been waiting for permission, twitching and sighing as his spunk splatters over her neck and chest before dripping into her cleavage. He looks down at her, grinning lopsidedly as she trails a finger into the white mess. Slowly, theatrically—and she doesn’t care for the taste, but she knows the boys like the show—she licks it off her hand, tracing from tip to knuckle and back up again. He watches her, and his face might crack if he smiles any harder, but it’s a good look for him.

She wants to make him grin like that a lot more.

Maybe she’ll keep this boy after all.

So she kisses his cock again, and he gives a snort, almost a giggle before jerking back. “Hey. ‘S sensitive,” he apologizes, pushing himself back onto his feet. She watches him, thinking that Craig clad in nothing but his socks sure beats having him oiled up and brought to her tent. Well… scratch that. The oiling might be fun too, but there’s the goofy charm of him wriggling about her apartment in just the white socks, rubbing his ass with one hand and watching her in adoration.

“How about I get a nice cool cloth for your ass, and then we just lie in bed and listen to the radio?” she suggests. He nods eagerly, trailing behind her as she goes to the kitchen for a dish towel. She picks red, teasing “to match your beret,” and he chuckles, ducking his head to hide the flush. But he’s happy, and she’s happy, and that’s all that matters.

Screw ‘maybe.’

She’s _keeping_ this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some author's notes at tumblr. Because I overthink smut, yo.](http://chocochipbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/93840684640/mad-about-the-boy-on-ao3-yay-smut-with)


	2. Pretty Soldier-Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla catches Craig trying on her panties, then buys him his own.

It all began with her favorite panties.

They are soft pink, cute rather than sexy, with a faux black ribbon edging around the top like a false cinch. The actual bow is real though, a tiny smooth thing the size of her thumb. The elastic’s firm enough to pinch a little, making her belly spill over the top but Craig devours that jiggle like a starving man every time she wears them.

Unfortunately, it seems he likes them a little too much, since Carla came home early to find him hitching them past his thighs.

“ _Craig_!” she snaps. His head jerks up, guilt written broad on his face. “What do you think you’re doing?” His mouth gapes, jaw flopping and some mumbled protest starts mush-mouthing its way out as he hastily drops the offending garment to his knees. “You’re stretching them out!”

They stare at each other for a long moment—her with her knuckles on her hips, arms akimbo and him with the incriminating panties around his ankles. Then the utter absurdity of the situation sets in, and Carla leans in the doorway, shoulders resting against the frame and belly heaving in laughter.

“You’re not mad?”

“Honey, _no_.” Carla closes the distance in a few quick steps, curling her fingers under his chin and tilting him up for a chaste kiss. Then one decidedly less chaste, slipping her tongue in his mouth and nipping his lower lip. “Well, just a little. The stretching. But if you like ‘em, we can get you your own frilly undies, alright?”

He beams with joy.

 

* * *

 

Carla walks into the shop with her normal no-nonsense brass and emerges victorious with a bag full of silk and nylons, little wisps of sweet dreams and vulgar fantasy. Not that there had been much struggle; the shop assistant had been a delight, perfectly attentive without imposing as she steered Carla’s attention towards items of interest. Carla hopes her commission’s good. She certainly dropped enough caps in that shop.

She makes Craig sit on a chair as she lays out his new clothes. ‘His’ but she feels a proud sense of possession because he’s _her_ boy. He leans forward, hands on his knees and almost levitating his ass out of the seat. Mouth open, it looks like he might catch flies so she lifts his chin with her fingertips, using her other hand to swipe his glasses. Such beautiful green eyes, shame that he hides them all the time—so she takes his hat for good measure.

“Strip for me,” she breathes, leaning close to kiss behind his ear. He smells sweet and clean, with a hint of sage from some new soap.

He rucks his shirt over his head as she steps back, out of range of his flailing elbows. Craig drops the shirt beside the chair, and then crosses an ankle over his leg to work off his shoe and sock. Repeating on the other side, he then unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants before letting them fall to the ground. His cock’s not fully awake yet, just a promising start as he finally shucks the boxers.

Beckoning him closer with her little finger, she sits on the bed. She lays his hat and shades neatly to the side, but slaps Boone’s hand as he immediately reaches for the panties.

“No,” she says, firm but sweet like disciplining a puppy. At the subtle jut of his lip, she relents. “Later, dear. Panties go _over_ the garter belt, unless you really want a tangle when trying to use the loo.” Grinning, she adds a little sugar by arching her eyebrow. “Or when I jack you off.”

He gulps. “ _Yes_ Miss Carla.”

She bought several sets of panties and stockings, but laid out her personal favorites for tonight. The garter belt is plain black, utilitarian rather than sexy—or at least no more so than the intrinsic illicit thrill when she fastens it about Boone’s waist. He turns sweet and obedient for her, letting her clasp it in the back for him and settle it smooth over his skin. She lingers over his thigh, the fine hairs on his leg tickling her palm. Shaving him might make a smoother feel, but she figures the stockings will smooth him nice enough. And she hates shaving her own legs enough she’d rather not inflict it on her dear boy.

At the stockings though, he hesitates, holding his breath.

“Something wrong?” she asks, rolling the nylons between her hands.

“That’s not my rank.”

“These?” She chuckles, running a thumb over the silver chevrons embroidered on top of the stocking, the point of the ‘V’ connecting to the seam. “I don’t know ranks, but I figured you’d look pretty in these. Prettiest soldier-boy in all First Recon.”

“Two chevrons is not—“ And he stops, lips thinning. She hadn’t thought her boy would care that much about the ranking, but once he gets an idea set in his teeth, he gnaws it all over the place. He continues doggedly. “’S corporal. And they’re pointed the wrong way.”

“Do you not want to wear them?”

He colors. “No! I mean, I do. It’s just not _right_.”

“C’mere then. Sit on the bed and I’ll roll these up for you, alright?”

The rank might be wrong but _this_ feels right, rolling the stockings up and holding them out for him. He wriggles his toes before pointing them, still and hesitant as if afraid of tearing his nice new things. So she takes the initiative, whispering the nylons over his toes and heel, slowly rising to her feet and leaning against the bed as she smoothes them over his knees. He stays sitting, thighs still bare and she leans over his lap with her palms on the mattress, tickling his belly with a kiss. The little snort of laughter he releases tells her he’s been holding his breath, so she kisses him again, flicking her tongue into his navel.

“C’mon baby, breathe for me. Don’t want you to pass out now.”

He mumbles assent as she repeats the process on his other leg, rolling the dark stocking up his calf and to the knee. She then takes his hands, tugging him to his feet as she finishes gliding the stockings over his thighs. They’re thick with muscle (and a pleasing layer of softness, something no amount of military exercise or scanty rations can fully eliminate) but the dark shimmer of the nylons make them look sleek, alluring in a way she never fully appreciated before. The seam running up the backs of his legs accentuate the curve of his calf, somehow both slimming and defining. And the jaunty, incorrect chevrons send an extra frisson of delight through her belly, because her sweet soldier’s never looked so charming as this.

Squeezing his thigh, she makes a great fuss over adjusting the stockings _just so_ , tugging the straps in place and snugging the rubber nubbin of the garter tab through the keyhole. Then she finishes with another squeeze, followed by a playful slap that teases a laugh from him.

“Now you see why the panties go on last, right baby?”

“Yes, miss Carla,” he murmurs, taking the coveted panties from the bed as she—finally—lets him pick them up. Bright blue, the sort described as ‘robin’s egg’ even though Carla’s never seen a robin outside of faded prewar photos, much less an egg. Ruffles in the front enhance the bulge of his genitals, while the back molds itself to his ass like liquid silk.

For the finishing touch, she drops his shades and beret into her linen chest, locking it with a dramatic click. Tossing him a wink and a grin, she slides the key down her cleavage. The corner of his mouth crooks up, but he makes no protest.

Dinner’s a couple of brahmin steaks and salads she’d set aside earlier, though Boone did his part by bringing the beer. He cracks the tops as she sets the table, and she sits beside him rather than across at her itty-bitty square table so her knees brush his nylon-clad thighs and she can wriggle her toes to feel his feet. He colors pretty as a sunset every time she does so, rosy pink flush spreading from ears to chin. She leans over the table to wipe a dab of grilled onions from the corner of his mouth, and he tilts to brush his lips across the back of her knuckles. She rewards him with a kiss at the pulse of his wrist, catching his hand in hers and squeezing.

He goes to dish duty after dinner without being asked, elbows-deep in suds and wearing his new finery. Grinning ear to ear. He looks younger this way. Vulnerable. _Cute_ , especially with the silk molded to his ass like a second skin. His stockings fit beautifully, the dark seams rendering his legs more shapely. And proper military ranking be damned, she loves those chevrons. She steps behind him, resting her chin against his shoulder blade and trailing a finger over the tops of those stockings. Circling the elastic band, then up the garter strap connecting to the belt before disappearing under the panties. She loves this contrast, the smooth shimmer of nylons, warm with his heat, and the gentle give of flesh just beyond the fabric’s edge.

He’s already hard, cock bulging, and a low moan escapes his lips as she cups his ass.

“Be a good boy and finish those dishes. If you keep dawdling, I’ll have to punish you,” she teases, nipping his shoulder.

His breath hitches, but her sweet boy’s deep as a puddle sometimes and she cuts his question off with a stern, “Punishment means _no_ spanking.”

A smile peeps out, soft and embarrassed. “Yes’m.”

Dishes take longer than if Craig just did them by himself. Even though Carla ostensibly ‘helps’ by drying, she works enough wiggle in her hips to bump him every so often. Sweet boy tries bumping back, though he’s got all the natural grace of a brahmin and tumbles over when she brilliantly evades by taking a step back. He catches himself on the counter, blushing so hard his ears turn red. Giggling, she catches his soapy hand in hers and kisses the crook of his elbow.

He ducks his head, scrubbing with a jot more force than necessary. “Yes’m.”

Eventually, he passes the last dish to her and starts putting away her already-dried stack. She coos, batting her eyes as he places the final plate in the cupboard.

“Such a good boy. Would you like to be spanked?” He nods, head bobbing like a chicken. So she takes his hand, pulling him to the bedroom and sitting on the bed. She scootches so just her feet dangle, skirt fanned out around her, and pats her lap. “C’mere.”

He leans on the bed, wriggling himself in place with his ass in the air and his belly slung between her knees. The bed dips beneath their combined weight, her butt sinking into the mattress. She rests her hand on the small of his back, caressing the dip of his spine before sliding over the pale blue scraps decorating his ass. He sighs, leaning forward on his forearms as she traces her thumb along the cleft of his buttocks and the gentle swell where butt meets thigh.

“Ready, dear?”

Craig squirms a little, letting her feel the warm bulge of his cock against her leg. “Yes’m.”

So she patters gentle blows on him, smacking with her fingers and only occasional use of her palm. Her other hand rests higher on his back, near the shoulder—less to pin him in place, more to read the tension in his form.

Not that there’s much. He twitches at first, more anticipation than shock before she settles into an easy rhythm. He relaxes limp as a pancake, melting until his forehead rests on his hands and he sighs after each pat. No sting, just gentle sensation and the soft sound of impact. The perfect reward spanking for a good boy. Truth be told, she’d be afraid of tearing his nice new panties if she were giving him a punishment spanking. One hard breeze or one hard stiffy might shred them to pieces.

She finishes with one hard smack—her fingers tingle after but Craig’s sharp gasp of delight swallows any discomfort—and squeezes his nylon-covered thigh. “Roll over onto your side. I want to spoon.”

He topples over, swell of his cock through the ruffled silk looking so good, but it feels even better when she slots herself against the curve of his body. She hitches up her skirt past her waist, exposing the cute pink undies that got this whole thing started. Boone’s low chuckle rumbles through her, more felt than heard as he skims his thumb over the front ribbon.

“Love these.”

“Yours are prettier,” she teases, shimmying the panties over her hips and wriggling so her back’s flush with his chest.

“If you say so.” He cups her thigh, crossing one stocking-clad foot over her ankles and pulling to bring her groin level with his. If it weren’t for those panties, he could be sliding his cock in her right now, but he’s a patient boy. No, scratch that—she used to think it was patience, a willingness to wait until she finally helps him blow, but there’s _enjoyment_. He likes the wait, the anticipation. More than that, he _likes_ seeing her happy, trusting to her guidance. Hell, he likes being told what to do. Sweet, silly boy. She’s more than happy to do that.

“Okay,” she murmurs, voice low and throaty, rolling her cheek against the pillow. “Lemme suck your fingers a little, then you… mm.” Her tongue swirls the tip, pulls gently with her lips to bring him into her mouth as she sucks down to the second joint. She’s tempted to go all the way to where the finger meets hand, but no sense in that sort of performance. Choking on someone’s hand is never especially sexy anyway. She goes slow and wet, a generous coating of saliva before pushing the base of his wrist. He obeys the unspoken command, freeing her mouth to moan further instructions. “Okay now. Play with my clit—lighter, honey, it’s a delicate thing. Not so hard, but… _oooh_ , that’s it.” His palm fits sweet against the swell of her belly, his other fingers splayed through her generous wealth of pubic hair and his spit-slick fingers rubbing in a light circle, fluttering just a little harder as it passes over the hood of her clit.

And normally that’s not enough for her to get off—not on her own, not without toys or another hand to play with her—but the nice thing about Craig is he’s just so willing to please. The one hand continues teasing her clit as she rolls her head to expose the curve of her neck, and he settles over the sweet spot where her collar bone meets the shoulder. Warm lips, the sour tang of beer on the back of his mouth and just a tiny bit of wet as he dots his tongue along her skin. She could spend a whole lazy afternoon just drinking beer with him in the kitchen, but this is even more fun than day drinking. His panty-clad cock rubs against her ass, erection pressing against the slickness at the apex of her thighs and she moans. Knowing she’s so wet, her juices turning that fine delicate silk all soaked and dark, the way her heat must make it feel like he’s inside her already…

“Oh baby, tell me how you feel.”

“Good,” he grunts, pressing his mouth over her neck and suckling. Not even a hint of teeth, such a careful boy.

“Tell me how good.”

“R- _real_ good,” he stammers, and she would feel just the tiniest twist of guilt for putting her boy on the spot when words are such a trouble for him but guilt is for someone _not_ about to have an orgasm sweep all over her from ears to toes, her calves clenching as her body jackknifes, but Craig’s got such a firm hold on her shoulder that she’s pinned in place, still all gentle-like as she climaxes from the feel of his hand on her clit and his mouth on her skin and his cock nestled against the backs of her thighs.

“Oh _baby_ , sweet boy,” she groans, and that might be the end of it with another lover but Craig, sweet darling Craig, continues with all the diligence of a born follower. He kisses her neck again, cups her breast through the thin cotton of her dress and she fits her hand over his as he keeps rubbing with his fingers. But her poor throbbing clit’s had enough of that so she hisses, arching her back. “No, baby. Use flats. All over, nice and broad.”

He kisses her ear, changing his hand position. “Like this?”

“Yeah, like that. A little firmer, more pressure over—ooh, that’s it, baby.” He found the right place, the right way, his palm rustling over her pubic hair and pressing on the bone, the anchor for her clit. She’s not a doctor, maybe would need to see one to understand the way it all connects, but she knows her body and what she likes. And she likes _this,_ the way her labia squeezes a little snug around the clit at his gentle pressure, giving her more of that feel-good without triggering the painful intensity she gets right after coming.

She comes again against him, that little wisp of silk between them now thoroughly soaked in her juices. That little wisp of nothing might make a good gag, she thinks; wadded up small in his mouth, then with a stocking tied over to keep it in place. But that’s an idea for another time.

“Craig baby, that’s enough,” she sighs, taking his hand and pulling it up to cup her breast. He does it with a strange sort of reverence. Not cautious exactly, but none of the excited fumbling she would have thought from such a sweet boy. But they’ve had weeks of easy loving and easier fucking to get used to one another, and it doesn’t surprise her the way it first did. “I figure it’s your turn.”

“’Sonly my turn if you’re done, Miss Carla.”

“What a good boy,” she chuckles, twisting to face him. She twines an arm over his shoulder, nails slicing through the stubbly bristle starting to grow out over his scalp as she pulls him close for a kiss. He’s wet and pliant, lips parting for her tongue as she darts in. Nothing too lingering, but just a little taste to remind him she loves him.

It seems a shame to pull the panties off when he looks so good in them, the blue silk shimmering in the yellow light filtering through the slats in the window. The slick mess she left all over his cock only adds a sort of illicit charm, a reminder of the prewar lingerie’s delicious decadence. But she’s not talented enough to give a handjob through underwear, and doesn’t think this is the time to try.

But she can try something else, pressing her fingers under the waistband of his panties and pulling down. Once safely past his crotch, she leans forward to brush her nose against his balls—they smell of musk and arousal,  an edge of sage from that new soap she decides she likes—and closes her lips around the silk. She only uses the tiniest edge of teeth to keep them firmly in her mouth as she pulls down, tasting her own wetness as she strips her darling boy with her teeth.

She likes the way it looks when other boys have done it in the past—something about the wild recklessness of it, a primal beat triggered by sex and arousal—but she goes gentle as a breeze because her sweet boy deserves a little softness in his life. She peeks up through her lashes, watching his eyes widen as he breathes hard through his mouth. Crawling back on her knees, she manages to get the garment past his knees before giving up and releasing, pulling it the rest of the way with her hand.

“Good boy. Now sit back on the bed with your legs nice and wide.”

He obeys without a peep, knees flexed and nylons casting a lovely shade over his pale skin. His hair is sparse enough not to ruin the smooth feel as she runs her hand over his ankle, gliding up to his knee and over the thigh before pausing on the bare flesh just shy of his groin. He looks just so _pretty_ and that makes her devilish.

“Sweet boy, so pretty like this. Would my pretty boy like a little bit of fingering?”

Now he really stares at her, face blanched and she’d think it’s horror except for the way he licks his lips and stares like a child seeing their very first birthday cake. “ _Yes’m_ ,” he whispers, hoarse and fervent.

She giggles, reaching over the side of the bed for the little bit of liniment she keeps for her cracked knuckles and dry skin, for the days when the desert air just sucks all the moisture right from her bones. “You’ve done it before, then?”

“Yes’m. Just—just didn’t think the girls out in the city were into that kind of thing.”

“Well, _this_ woman is. So one finger? Two?” Carla grins, flashing her teeth. “My fist?”

His dick throbs, twitching as he swallows. “Uh… one finger, Miss Carla.” Then he surprises her with an embarrassed, soppy smile. “Could work our way up.”

“You are a delight,” she coos, taking a dab of the moisturizer and slicking it nice and smooth over her index finger. It melts clear as she warms it against her skin, a little greasy but that only makes it better for this. “A fist might be a _little_ ambitious for right now, but I can definitely get you a finger. C’mon, baby. Spread nice and wide for me.”

He burrows his toes into the covers, mattress creaking as she settles between his legs. Her legs fit under his, his nylons skimming over her bare knees as she wriggles closer. Even spread like this, his asshole’s shy, a dark little wrinkle tucked in on itself. So she goes gentle, not even trying to probe yet and massaging the area around his sphincter with the pad of her finger.

Craig sighs contentment, so she starts kissing his balls, tickling her tongue over the sparse hairs coating his sack. He giggles—and he might argue, call that a chuckle but Carla knows a giggle when she hears it—and that relaxes him enough so she presses her finger against the outer ring. It’s smooth and gentle, a little resistance as she slides deeper so she stops, instead dipping tiny thrusts towards the back. His buttocks clench, so she soothes him with a warm kiss on the inside of his thigh.

“C’mon baby. How is this?”

“Good. R-real good, Miss Carla,” he groans, hands clenching in the covers.

She stays there for a bit, sucking with wet lips along the base of the shaft, never fully enveloping in her mouth but alternating licks and nuzzles to tease him along. He moans, reaching down with his hands in her hair and at first she thinks he’s about to grab her. She prepares to chide him, but no—she should have trusted her sweet boy, since he only trails his fingers through her hair, desperate for what little softness he can touch.

“Baby, feel your legs in these stockings. You feel _amazing_. Touch yourself for me so I can see,” she murmurs, command made soft with another kiss at the crease of his thigh.

He hastens to obey, so excited at first she worries he’s going to snag a nail into the nylons and rip them already, but he moans and pulls back his fingers so only the pads of his hands stroke up and down those muscular thighs. The rustling of flesh on nylon is soft, ephemeral—delicate. Perfect.

His ass is nicely warmed up now, so she slides deeper, almost to the knuckle so she curls a little, searching for—ah yes, there it is. He squirms as she finds the prostate, gulping exhalations and a stream of “wow, oh _wow_ ,” that she takes as encouragement. No longer sucking now, she pulls her shoulders back and wraps her hand around his cock, briskly pumping up and down with her thumb slipping along the top.

He’s so cute, head thrown back with his throat exposed, eyes shut and mouth open. She pulls out a little, then thrusts back in, delighting in the way his breath catches past his teeth. His grip makes dimples in his stocking-clad thighs, fingers digging into the flesh—and but _oh_ Carla wishes she had a camera to capture his expression. Pictures—no, even better; _video_. Something for her to play back, the way his belly rises and falls as his breathing quickens, the way he quivers, clenches—

“Craig, baby, open your eyes. Look at me. I want to watch you come,” she coaxes. He has such beautiful eyes, dark under the curve of his lashes, pupils dilated and glassy. So pretty but so gone, even as he watches her watching him, because he climaxes with a sigh. A long spurt, Carla angling so the semen hits his belly, then a smaller one, dribbling over her fingers. Still not breaking their gaze, she releases his cock, kissing the softening shaft. Slowly, she licks her hand, running her tongue across the knuckles and winking at Craig’s loopy smile. She pulls her finger out of his ass, half-surprised not to hear an audible pop as she withdraws, and wipes it on the blanket.

“Miss Carla?” he asks, biting his lip.

“Yes baby?”

He knits his brows together. “I—I really like it when you lick my come. ‘Sreal hot. But you don’t have to, if you don’t like to. Can’t reckon it tastes like much.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”

Blushing, he shakes his head. But he opens his mouth soon after, tongue soft and protruding just past his lips. Licking them, he mumbles, “Wouldn’t mind. Not if you fed me.”

“Oh? My sweet Craig wants to taste himself on my tongue?”

He nods so hard she’s half-afraid his head will roll off.

Giggling, she tilts her head forward, lapping up the puddle on his belly. Holding it in her mouth, she crawls her way over his torso to straddle his hips. Her skirt drapes behind her, picking up saliva and semen in its trail. It will need a good wash later, but that’s _later_. Messy fun _deserves_ a good clean-up.

He opens his mouth for her, so she lights her lips on his, parting them to let the salty come seep onto his tongue. Then she deepens the kiss, darting her tongue against his and trailing more fluid. A gentle echo of their first kiss, nibbling his lips and moaning soft against his mouth as he groans. More kisses, exploring the shape of his mouth and how the tastes mingle, salt and musk over the tang from dinner’s beer. When they finally part, the corners of his mouth are wet. She’s not sure if it’s all saliva or if it’s still mixed with a little of his spunk, but either way, he’s adorable.

Craig’s eyes are still glassy, mouth slack. Maybe not fully himself yet, so she slots herself beside him, draping her arm across his shoulder.

“Baby, talk to me. How are you feeling?”

“Good. _Real_ good.”

She wriggles her toes against his calf, savoring the nylon textured over his skin. “We’ll have to play dress-up again.”

He nods emphatically, rolling to nuzzle her scalp. His nose tickles against her hair, making him sneeze. She laughs, burying her face against his chest.

“And more fingers?” he asks hopefully.

“Yeah, definitely.”

There are a lot more things she wants to try, and she delights in telling him about them until her voice is hoarse and his lips ache with smiling.


	3. Showmanship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swank and Craig put on a show while Carla calls the shots.

“Well hey beautiful, nice to see you come back to the Tops. Was starting to think your boy-toy wussed on out on us,” Swank teases, raising a martini glass in mock toast.

Carla squeezes Craig’s arm before leaning over to peck Swank’s cheek—incidentally swiping the olive from his glass and popping it in her mouth. “Craig’s a sweet boy. More guts than you give him credit for,” she says, chewing.

“A real trooper, eh?” Swank drums his fingers on the bar, raking his gaze over Craig’s body. Every inch screams off-duty soldier-boy—the awkwardly rigid stance, hands stiff at his side, the white shirt tucked precisely into his pants. “Well, sweetheart, can’t be as dull as he looks, right?”

Craig blushes a mottled red from the tips of his ears.

Carla swats Swank’s arm, swallowing the olive. “Behave, boy. Craig, honey, still want to do this?”

“Yes, miss Carla.”

Swank leers. “Miss Carla, eh? Do I—“

“No, you are just ‘Swank’ for tonight.” She flicks Swank’s nose when he mimes a broken heart across his chest. “Review the rules, boys?”

“No touching you, but you’re allowed to touch me. ‘Stop’ means stop, no games. You call the shots, beautiful.” The easy litany rolls off Swank’s lips, and he winks at Boone. The other man swallows, lips crinkling upward.

“And if you call my tits ‘charlies’ I will throttle you.”

“Miss Carla, you wound me!”

“Only if you use the forbidden words, Swank.” She senses rather than sees Craig’s discomfort, a subtle tension in his shoulders so she loops an arm around his waist, bumping her thigh against his. “Craig, baby, I’m just planning on watching tonight. You and Swank are the stars.”

“First time playing in groups?” the Chairman asks, tipping the rest of his martini down his throat. He chuckles at Craig’s jerky nod. “Well, ring-a-ding ding! Trust me, soldier-boy, I know I’m a guest. Not getting between you and your lady there.” A dazzling grin, the kind that shines brighter than the Vegas lights, and he raises two fingers to his brow in mock salute. “You’re a lucky man.”

“I know,” Craig mumbles.

Swank treats Craig to a shot (“the good whiskey, none of that swill from the Wrangler”) and Craig gulps it so fast he hacks at the end. Carla rubs his shoulders consolingly, shaking her head as Swank offers her a drink. A little alcohol to take the edge off might help her dear boy, but she decides she’d rather stay clear for this first time. Swank’s ever a charmer, the sort of playful sweetness that’s made many a cocktail waitress blush, even the ones that should know better—and it works on Craig too, teasing and bantering until Craig’s embarrassed red flush is replaced with something soft and pink, giddy.

Then up they go in the elevators, Carla holding Craig’s hand and Swank draping his arm across Craig’s shoulders. A perfect fit, Swank’s hand resting along the curve of Craig’s bicep and the other casually tucked into one of his suit pockets. Carla reaches up to slot her fingers between Swank’s, the worn fabric of Craig’s shirt soft beneath her palm.

Craig gulps.

The small space blends their scents, Swank’s cool-edged cologne a sharp accent to Craig’s simple soap. Carla’s own rose perfume is now more powdery than floral, a subtle note underpinning everything else. Add a little human alchemy, sweat and lust and a few laughs along the way, and it would be good enough to bottle. She chuckles at the thought, though it’s hidden as the elevator doors open with a ‘ding.’

Swank lowers his mouth to Craig’s ear, lips brushing the spiral curl as he murmurs, “C’mon, soldier-boy. We’re gonna have ourselves a good time.” He shifts his grip, fingers slipping past Carla’s as he scruffs Craig by the back of his shirt, tugging him down the hallway to his suite. Carla follows, cupping her hand under the swell of Craig’s buttocks and squeezing as Swank unlocks the door.

It’s a nice space, clean and not too cluttered. Despite the caps flowing free and easy through the casino, Swank doesn’t need to fill his room with all the pretty doodads that he could. Not much evidence of habitation, beyond a tie casually slung across the back of a chair and an empty wineglass left sitting on a table.

“Bed’s this-a-way, champ,” Swank growls, biting the tip of Craig’s ear.

“Got a chair in there?” Carla asks.

“A terrible oversight, miss Carla. Let’s remedy that right away.” Gesturing broadly to a chaise lounge with red covers, he bumps his hip against Craig. Her sweet boy takes the hint, disentangling himself from Swank and squatting—bending at the knees, good, not from the back or she’d be scolding him—to lift the chair. They file into the bedroom in a line; Swank and Craig each holding up one end of the chair, then Carla, and when the men set the chair down Swank makes a great fuss over fluffing the cushion. She seats herself daintily, smoothing the folds of her skirt and crossing her ankles.

“Well, miss Carla. You’re calling the shots. What can we do you for?” Swank loops his arm through Boone’s, a showman’s smile on his lips.

“Start undressing each other. Swank, you go first—I want to see you take Craig apart for me.” Draping an arm over the back of the chair, she raises an eyebrow. “Now.”

“Yes’m.” Swank turns to kiss Craig’s cheek, brushing along the jaw as he starts with Craig’s belt. A few tugs, slipping the leather strip out of the buckle before he unbuttons Craig’s pants. The soldier stands stiff, hands hovering a few awkward inches from Swank’s wrists as the other man slides Craig’s pants past his thighs.

Licking her lips, Carla croons, “It’s all right, honey. You can touch him too.”

Craig still peeks to the side, eyes half-shut. He does not move until Carla nods her approval, then opens his mouth to press his lips to Swank’s cheek. A soft scrape, then Swank winces—“careful with the teeth!”—and Craig blushes jam-sweet. Swank rucks up Craig’s shirt, tugs it past those broad shoulders and helps Craig wriggle out of it before balling it up and tossing it to the side. Palm on Craig’s chest, he pushes the other man to sit on the bed before kneeling between his legs to unfasten his boots. The pants follow, then socks, as Craig finally dares to rest his hand on Swank’s carefully slicked coif.

“’Salright, soldier-boy. I’m not one of them King boys to throw a fit if you touch the ‘do,” Swank chuckles, one hand on Craig’s thigh. His brown tan looks startlingly dark against the white of Craig’s flesh, like coffee on cream, and Carla’s mouth waters at the sight. Encouraged, Craig runs his thumb over the stiff locks and brushes his fingers behind Swank’s ears. Swank turns to suck Craig’s pinky, using his lips to pull it into his mouth as he pulls Craig’s boxers off.

Carla lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as she spreads her knees. Dips her fingers into the cleft of her thighs, rubbing small circles through the thin cotton of her dress. Even through her skirt, through her panties, there’s a rush of heat at her fingers, slick moisture as her underwear nestles tight against her slit.

“Good-looking boy. Nice cock. How does he taste, miss Carla?”

“You can ask him yourself,” she responds, a warm drawl as she reclines.

Craig doesn’t wait for the question. “Taste alright.” Gnaws his cheek. “Little bitter,” he admits.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Swank murmurs, kissing the pulse of Craig’s wrist.

“Craig, baby, undress him too. Want to see you both naked on that big old bed.”

Craig goes sweet and slow, pulling Swank on the bed beside him. Her boy gives her a sidelong peek, head tilted to cast shadows over his eyes, and she nods approvingly. Encouraged, he undoes Swank’s tie, hands steady despite his rapid breathing. A small fumble as his fingers slip over the knot, but Swank chuckles and murmurs, “Yeah, it’s easier to tie on than take off.”

Turning his head, Swank flashes a dazzling smile. “Miss Carla, may I kiss your boy?”

“Craig, would you like to be kissed?” she counters, thumb pressed to her lips as her other hand traces the curve of her labia. “Nod if yes.” He’d said yes back in her apartment, but who knew if that changed somewhere between Freeside and the Strip? So when he nods—quick jerk of his head, cheeks flushed and lips parted—she hides her grin behind her palm. “Yes, Swank, you may kiss him. Make it a show.”

Swank’s grin broadens as he cups Craig’s face, angling so Carla can watch their lips meet. Craig continues undressing Swank, buttons parting beneath his callused thumbs as the Chairman tugs Craig’s lips between his teeth. Craig’s hands slide up Swank’s white undershirt to expose a strip of tattooed flesh. Peeling off Swank’s polished veneer, the scarred tribal still lurking beneath the fancy suit.

They break apart as Swank shrugs his shirt off, Craig pulling up Swank’s undershirt. Scars and tattoos, pale ochre with black ink and puckered flesh in beautiful contrast to Craig’s sun-browned hands and pale belly. Even more beautiful as Craig undoes Swank’s belt and unzips his fly, the two men’s fingers tracing together as Swank’s trousers roll down. Off with his shoes and socks, clothing left puddled on the floor as Craig returns to kissing Swank, fierce and sweet as habanero honey. They’re both flushed, Swank gripping Craig’s shoulder and squeezing hard enough for Carla to watch the flesh dimple. Craig’s hand rests over the planes of Swank’s abdomen, thumb tracing the hard line of his hips--and Carla bites her lip, imagining what Swank’s chest and stomach must feel like. The sweat-dappled warmth, the whorls and lines of old scars, the tension to the muscles beneath skin smoothed by years of wearing cotton instead of hide. Craig seems captivated, fingers trailing and pausing. Brushing his fingers through the top of the dark curls over Swank’s groin.

She swallows, wetting her lips and gathering her voice. “Okay,” she says, husky despite her best efforts at neutrality. “Swank, pull Craig over your knees. I’d like you to spank him.”

Pulling his head back, Swank raises an eyebrow. “Has he been a bad boy, miss Carla?”

“No, he’s been very good. Hence the spanking.”

Swank rests his feet flat on the carpet, patting his lap in invitation. Craig tumbles over in his excitement, resting his chest on his forearms with his hips over Swank’s legs and his toes curling into the covers.

Chuckling, Swank rests his hand on Craig’s ass. Fingers tracing the curve of the buttock where it meets the thigh, thumb tracing tiny circles on the padded rump. “Eager.”

Craig grunts agreement, but Swank waits for Carla’s regal nod of approval before spanking. He rests his other hand on the middle of Craig’s back, fingers straddling the spine. Lower than Carla prefers, but to each their own—and Craig’s delighted whimper proves it makes little difference. His hands clench the blankets, eyes scrunched shut as he bites his lower lip.

“Mouth open, baby. I want to hear you moan,” Carla coaxes, busily rubbing the thick pad of her vulva around her clit. Fingers curling, instinct and experience helping her balance the tension of pleasure now versus the sustained gratification of ordering the boys around.

Craig gulps, opens his mouth—whines low in his throat, a startled gasp rasping over his lips as Swank smacks harder. An uneven rhythm, no chance for Craig to anticipate the next strike as Swank slowly ramps the intensity from gentle pats that barely jiggle the flesh to a full-body swing that rocks Craig’s face into the bed. Her boy groans, the mattress muffling his cry.

Cheeks flushed, Swank tosses a wink Carla’s way. “Any chance of you getting naked, beautiful?”

“Not today. Ankles are all you get,” she teases, crossing her ankles and wriggling her toes. Just enough to show the bare skin of her ankle, plus a swell of calf.

“And they’re the loveliest ankles to grace my presence, miss Carla.”

“Damn right.” She cocks her head, eyeing the cant of Craig’s hips.

Swank catches her interest, reflects it back in a flash of teeth as he squeezes Boone’s ass. “His cock’s hard and rubbing my thigh, miss Carla. I think he likes this.”

“Keep going harder then. I want to hear him—ooh,” she gasps, wincing in sympathy and delight as Swank’s palm cracks against the tender skin. This marks red, hot and overlying the gentle pink tinting the rest of Boone’s buttocks. Craig jerks, tumbling forward on his elbows and yelping.

“Too hard, soldier-boy?” Swank asks, turning his hand to skim his knuckles across the ruddy flesh.

Craig turns his face, breathing hard through his mouth. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide and fixed nowhere in particular—maybe some quiet inner space, that little in-between dancing between ‘coming’ and ‘gone’—as he shakes his head, fumbling for the words. “No.” A hard swallow, gaze drifting to Carla and she smiles warm and reassuring. His brow crinkles, maybe not too lost after all. “Like it. Harder.” He remembers his manners, blush pinking his ears. “Please.”

“From about anyone else, I’d call that a challenge. But you’re just a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Swank laughs, pulling his arm back for another swing. Hard, harder—harder than Carla likes going, and the red marking Swank’s hand means he must be stinging nearly as bad as Craig—the smack of flesh on flesh filling the room and Craig’s gasps masking her own soft moan as she squeezes her breast, left hand on her breast and right hand still stroking her clit through the folds of her skirt. The musk of her own arousal drowns out what little remains of her powdery rose perfume, and she entertains the brief fantasy of dabbing a swatch of her panties to Swank’s mouth, maybe gagging him with her underwear, but that’s another scene, another time.

Right now it’s all about Craig.

He lays limp across Swank’s lap, twitching at each blow but never truly struggling for escape. Jaw loose and pupils blown dark. Beautiful.

Eventually, Swank winces and blows cool breath across his hand. Shakes from the wrist to release tension. “Miss Carla, may I suck his cock?”

She thinks about cracking a joke, asking Craig if he’d trust his cock between those teeth—but doesn’t want to risk throwing him off stride. “Craig likes blowjobs.” Squirming back in her chair, she slips a hand down the top of her dress, rolling the nipple between her fingers and smirking at Swank’s disappointed sigh when she doesn’t actually expose anything. “He also likes being fingered.”

“You know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” Swank murmurs approvingly. “C’mon, roll onto your back.” He coaxes Craig to shift on the bed, one hand on the other man’s bicep and another on his thigh, as if grounding him with physical touch. A gentle stroke upwards, over the crease of his groin and brushing his fingers through the dark line of hair trickling down Craig’s belly.

Craig sighs, just a hint of discomfort as he sways side to side, sensitive skin rubbing on the covers. No matter how fine the material--and she knows Swank loves his creature comforts--the cool cloth must still chafe something awful on Craig’s tender rump. But even that can be an exquisite torment of its own, judging from Craig’s low moan.

Swank lights a kiss on Craig’s nipple. Flicks his tongue to taste, then a chaste kiss on the chest as Swank rolls to the side to grab a bottle of lube. Fancy sleek bottle with a pump, releasing a trickle of clear liquid that he warms with his thumb across his fingers.

Carla shakes her head, tutting disapproval. “More, Swank.”

“I’m getting there,” he retorts, pushing a more generous squirt into his hand. “How many fingers can he take?”

“We’ve worked our way up to three.”

“Anything else?”

She flutters her lashes coyly. “Why Swank, are you asking about our personal lives?”

“You wound me,” he groans. Then he’s between Craig’s legs, hoisting the other  man’s calves over his shoulders and wrapping a loose fist around the base of Craig’s cock. His other hand cups Craig’s ass, lifts—must be slipping a finger inside, from the way Craig moans and thrusts towards Swank. Swank pushes forward, lips around the glans, tongue darting out before enveloping Craig in his mouth.

Hard to see what Swank’s doing from this angle, even though she leans forward—Carla can watch the bob of his head, the tension in his forearms, but most of the action’s hidden behind Craig’s thigh—but Craig moans beautifully, clenching the covers and chest heaving as he surrenders to Swank’s attentions.

It’s not long before Craig groans, a tremble in his belly as he grunts, “Please, close to coming. Gonna—“ as if in warning, but that spurs Swank to pick up the pace. Carla recognizes the heave of Craig’s body as he sighs, releasing inside Swank’s mouth. Swank stays in place, squeezing and jerking as if milking the last of Craig’s semen before shrugging off Craig’s shoulders. Crawling over Craig’s body, he presses down in a sloppy kiss, cupping Craig’s cheeks. And—ooh, she can see Craig swallowing, a slippery trickle of saliva and cum leaking past the corners of their mouths as Craig takes back his own seed.

Hot damn.

Swank pulls back first, shifting so he straddles Craig’s chest. Knees wide, one hand on Craig’s shoulder, he starts jerking off. Craig reaches up to grip his thighs, eyes shut and patiently waiting for the inevitable. When Swank finally comes, it’s with a satisfied grunt as he spatters across Craig’s face. One spurt, then another—then pressing his cock to Craig’s lips.

“Lick it clean, soldier-boy.”

Craig sucks, little more than a bob of his head and another small swallow before Swank pulls back with a sigh. The mussed hair and sweat gleaming over his scars and tattoos do nothing to blot the intensity of his smile.

“So. Good show, Miss Carla?”

“Very good.” Not that she climaxed, but that can wait. And she has some very lovely memories now. “Just one more thing.”

“Anything, Miss Carla.”

She bites her lip, grinning and pulling her hand out of her top. Pressing her fingers together, she commands, "More kissing.”

Chuckling, Swank sweeps Craig into another kiss, rolling on the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Swank rubs his nose against Craig’s, smearing a slick of cum across his own cheek and touching his hand to his face. “What a mess.”

“Towels in the bathroom?” Carla asks--less a question, more an an announcement as she waits for Swank’s nod. Rising to her feet, limbs as blissfully languid as if she had been the one receiving all the attention, she strides to the other room. Plucks both hand towel from beside the sink and wets them under the tap, squeezing out the extra water before re-entering the bedroom.

One towel she passes to Swank, letting him wipe Craig’s face clean. He sweeps across her boy’s cheeks with a gentle hand, landing his lips soft on each newly-cleaned swathe of skin. Craig sighs contentment, quiet but wriggling his hips in anticipation when Carla rests the other towel on his rump. She runs it across his heated flesh, tracing her thumb through the moisture left behind, and Craig rolls to his belly. Lies flopping like a happy pancake, eyes shut and lips twitching in what she recognizes as a smile.

Swank sets his towel on the nightstand, and Carla props herself on her elbow with her other hand on the back of Craig’s neck. Craig fits perfectly between the curve of her body and Swank, the other man hooking his toes over Craig’s ankles and nuzzling his ear. Warm, content, and loved, Craig drifts in a dreamy reverie that could pass for sleep as Swank and Carla play-flirt across his shoulders.

 


	4. At Your Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long day at work means Craig's domestic goddess deserves a loving footrub.

She bumps the door shut with her hip, one hand on the wall and the other yanking off those twice-damned shoes, candy-apple shine with little bows but _damn_ they hurt. Today was supposed to be an easy day-- sit at the front desk, smile pretty at the gamblers, but _no_. One of the girls got sick on premises (and the employee gambling pool was running odds on morning sickness or too many cocktails on the sly; why believe a simple flu when more scandalous possibilities exist?)  and one of the floor managers remembered _hey_ , Carla used to shuffle, why don’t you go play blackjack dealer for the day? Think of the tips when they see your smiling face!

All this in one crescendoing diatribe, punctuated as she falls back in the sagging armchair with a weary thump.

And to top it off, she’s got a headache from the cigarette smoke still lingering in her hair, her skin, crawling over her like a handsy drunk. Makes her want one herself, despite quitting three months ago.

Craig, bless his heart, stays silent all the way through. Already kneeling by her feet, one hand resting on the dimples of her knee and the other rubbing circles on the mound of her big toe. Gentle as a whisper, nylons dipping into dark shimmers beneath his thumbs. He smells like sage and lemongrass, palms pink-raw from recent scrubbing.

“Baby, can you take off this pantyhose? Skin needs to breathe,” she groans, hitching her hips and flipping her skirt up. Too exhausted to even make a show of it, polka-dot pattern crumpling into dizzying whorls as she exposes the plain white panties. No ribbons or lace to beguile today, just cotton worn so thin her dark curls show through the fabric, albeit more suggestion than explicit. He glides his hands up her thighs like shadows, rolling down the waistband in gentle increments. Sweet as lavender pastilles, hands steady and lips laying benediction on the outer swell of her thigh. He rolls the nylons off her feet, past the last wriggle of her toes, and presses them to his cheek-- sweet, sentimental boy, she thinks he’d look lovely gagged with her panties and the hose wrapped over to keep it in place, but _oh_ that requires her to _not_ be dog-tired-- before setting them aside with all the reverence of some bygone age. He worships her with his eyes, mouth hungry for the sacred.

“Baby, please get a wet towel and wipe my feet, will you?” she asks, eyes fluttering shut as she melts into the chair.

He obeys with a scrape of denim knees on the worn carpet, then his sock-clad feet scuffing to the kitchen and the cool trickle of water from the tap. She smells the low simmer of gecko-- not her favorite, but enough peppers in it to keep things interesting. Still too tired to feel properly hungry, but she adds it to the mental tally of things to thank him for. He returns, wrapping the damp cloth around her ankle and sweeping wet strokes over the heel. She hisses as he grazes the pinched skin where the shoes dug too deep, still-red chafing and he mumbles an apology.

“No, I’m all right, just tender,” she murmurs, words an agave-nectar drip on the tongue. Water tickles down her foot, beading between the toes and feeling far better than it has any right to. Craig pats her foot dry with another towel, sealing his approval with a kiss to the hard bone of her inner ankle. He repeats on the other side, damp towel swabbing refreshment on her skin before he pats dry and kisses her.

Without prompting, he starts massaging her foot. Still in a supplicant’s kneel, folding his fingers across the fine lines of bone across the top and working tiny circles over the balls of her feet. Firm pressure, enough squeeze that she feels the tiny pops of stress release like champagne bubbles.

As if reading her mind, he asks, “Want a beer?”

She cracks her eyes open to see him watching her, all soft mouth and earnest brows (and glorious fivehead, hairline in defeated retreat, which might just be the reason he wears that silly hat all the time). Wants to wrap him up in a hug, fold him in her arms like a blanket but lord knows a beer sounds great too. So she nods, little regal incline of her head, and musters up enough of a smile to turn it teasing. “Sure. But you better not go drinking  on duty, baby. Still got to work on my feet some more.”

“Yes, miss Carla.” He ducks his head, but not quick enough before she catches the quirk of his lips. He’s getting something out of this-- more than just the pleasure of seeing his lady-love feeling good and soothed-- but she doesn’t mind. Adds a little spice, a little fun.

So she watches him go back to the kitchen, cracking open the fridge door and yellow light catching gold on the fine hairs of his forearm as he reaches in. Pops the cap with a bottle-opener already on the counter, and she knows _she_ didn’t leave it out, but sweet boy’s no slob either. Must have been planning this, and he returns with the beer, presenting it with an awkward flourish as he sinks to one knee. Palm flat, bottle on top, other hand holding it steady as she plucks it from his grip.

“Thank you, hon.”

“Welcome, miss Carla.” That shy little-boy smile, teeth flashing like the moon from behind a cloud and he returns to his tender ministrations. Another pop, joints releasing their strain, and he traces his fingers along the inner arch of her foot. Thumb, index, middle-- then another kiss, tickling the sole so she twitches back with a surprised laugh, splashing beer over her upper lip. Malty sweet, toasted notes wafting up her nose as she mock-protests with a single “Craig!” Blends with the lingering smoke, softens the edges to something like incense.

“Sorry, miss Carla.” The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkles, lips pressed tight as he bites to keep from grinning.

She brandishes the bottle at him, bringing her other arm up behind her so that she leans back with all the lazy grace of an old pin-up. “Watch yourself, baby, or I’m gonna use you as a footrest.”

“Wouldn’t mind.”

Carla chuckles, licking her lips. “How am I supposed to punish a bad boy like you, then? You like all my punishments.” An exaggerated sigh, pouting her lips plump and velvety before bringing the bottle to her mouth. A long swallow, flicking her tongue over the rim-- most blatant teasing she can think of, but doesn’t mind being crude when it makes Craig gulp so endearingly, ears turning sunburn-red.

“I’ll be good. Just tell me when you want me to go to the other foot.”

Beer makes a nice cold slick down her throat, his hands still warm and attentive as he massages the inner arch. Long strokes of his thumb, all angled down towards the heel. Brow furrowed in concentration, makes him look like he’s meditating. She watches him in silence for a while, admiring the clean slope of his skull, the curve of his ears and the silly line of wispy hairs he missed while shaving. Sips her beer, thinking _, This is nice. Could get used to this_. Cold beer and loving man after a long day at work, pampering her-- could get used to this. Be nice to have this man naked but for his socks, elbows-deep in dish suds as she cleans off the dinner table. Nicer to have him tangled up with her under the bedcovers, toes poking out from the blankets as she spoons up to him, wriggling her bare bottom against his groin and sleep-breath mingling as they welcome the dawn with lazy love-making. Nicest to have him on his knees, like this, worshiping her with every fiber of his being. Terrible, lovely shoes, lines around her belly from the pantyhose, all frustration melting at the door-- none of that matters when he watches her like a goddess, like he’s lighting a candle to some patron saint of luck every time he gobbles her with his eyes.

Eventually she wriggles her foot, lifting out of her reverie. Props it on his shoulder with a chuckle. “Other foot now, baby.”

He tilts his face, nuzzling her foot with his cheek. Tickles against the baby cactus-prickles of his stubble, but her laughter’s from his blissed-out face, loopy like a happy-drunk and eyes sparkling bright. She wriggles her foot again, poking her big toe into the chub of his rounded cheek, and he obediently ministers to this neglected appendage.

Carla rests the bottle against her forehead, condensation lingering on her skin. Takes another swig, allowing her sweet boy to work in peace for a while. He rolls gentle circles on each toe, one by one, before turning his attention to the mounds of the feet; she turns hers to the bulge in his jeans.

“So, you like being a footrest?” She lowers the bottle, takes another sip. Watches his eager nod, the jam-sweet blush on his cheeks. “Any other fantasies you want to share?”

She thinks he’s going to ask her to press her feet against his cock, rub up and down-- maybe even try jacking him off, massaging lotion into the inner arches of her feet and bracing around him. Happy enough to do that too, already thinking of the tiny pot of almond lotion on her dresser, but he surprises her.

“Try another man again.” He licks his lips, not quite meeting her gaze. Still working gentle and even over her foot though, rocking the second knuckle of his finger into the tender flesh of the midline. “You, me-- him.”

“Swank again?” Lord knows Swank would laugh himself sick at Craig’s foot fetish, but it would be a playful thing, sitting side by side with her in that lush room and letting Craig be masseuse, footrest, and plaything.

“Maybe.” He inhales slow through his nostrils, wrapping his hands around her ankle and leaning forward, peppering kisses along the outer blade of the foot. “Want to see you having sex with someone. Someone with a cock,” and Carla tucks that little clarification away to examine later, smiling indulgently at Craig, “and. Uh. Leaving his stuff in you. So I could…” The words trail away to an embarrassed mumble, chin on his chest.

Carla chuckles, twisting his foot from his grasp and propping it beneath his chin. Nudges up, forcing him to look her in the eye with her big toe firm against his pulse. “Continue, baby. Tell me what you want to do.”

“So I could… lick it from you. Lick you clean. Swallow his cum. Suck his cock after.” This confession comes in fits and starts, the boy turning deepening shades of red. “Want to watch it all first, though.”

She wriggles her shoulders into the couch, rough scrape of fabric soothing an itch on the shoulder blade. “Nice idea, baby. Want to watch me having sex with someone?” She keeps her toes below his chin, removing the other foot from his shoulder and stroking his cheek with the sole. Continues at his frantic nod. “Could be fun. Making him work his mouth between my legs, suck my clit. Get me nice and wet before I ride him hard. Sitting up, making him hold my breasts so they don’t bounce all over the place. Sounds good, yes?”

His low groan could be pleasure, could be pain, but she’s not hurting him-- least any more than whatever mental torment gets him off.

“Only problem is I don’t want anyone’s cum in me, hon. Not ready for kids yet.” Maybe with Craig, maybe later-- not now.

He swallows disappointment, eyes pleading. “Mutants are sterile,” he offers.

She nearly drops the bottle, choking on a laugh as she clutches her chest. Craig immediately rises to his feet, hand on her back and rubbing circles. Takes the bottle from her grip too, though she’s too breathless to thank him. Terrible thing to spill beer.

When she can finally breathe, she protests, “Baby, they’re _huge_. And size has never been one of my kinks.”

“‘Sokay. One of mine,” he mumbles.

“Then you fuck one, I’ll watch.” Not as flippant as she first thought, taking the beer back. Just because _she_ doesn’t want to fuck a huge cock doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice to watch Craig do it.

His eyebrows knit, gaze distant. Some sort of beautifully constipated thinking going on, and he says, “Could work. Like when you watch.”

She takes his hand, presses her lips to the knuckle and chuckles. “Or could do more than watch. Could-- baby, go back to rubbing my feet, good boy-- could see how big the mutant is, oil up my thighs and press him between my legs. Nice fit, warm him up-- gets you a nice visual too, yes? And then…” she sighs, letting out a low moan as Craig works his fingers along the sharp line of her Achilles tendon, squeezing in and stroking towards the ankle. “If he’s big enough, maybe could try that with you beneath me, him behind me. Cock slick between my thighs, rubbing myself on him while he slides into you. Or maybe you on top instead, lowering yourself on him while I straddle his mouth. Bet there’s lots of things he could do with that big tongue.”

Craig’s cheeks are red like apples, like cherries, so sweet she wants to pinch and take a bite. So she play-snaps, teeth clicking together as she rubs the empty beer bottle between her hands, slipping into the easy rhythm of a slow handjob.

“Would have to train your ass for him though. Think my fist’s big enough?”

His turn to choke now, eyes wide like a child with their first cake. The same eager acceptance when she first offered to spank him or buy him fancy panties. She grins hot and wicked, squeezing her fingers tight and tucking her thumb in their dip, miming a fluid thrust that makes Craig gulp.

“Y-yes miss Carla,” he stammers, licking his lips in a way she knows has absolutely _nothing_ to do with them being chapped.

“Good boy. Now,” she shifts, crossing her knees and tucking her skirt about her like a soft nimbus, “Would you please get some aloe for my feet?”

He nods, rising to kiss behind her ear. His warm breath raises prickles on her scalp as he walks back to the kitchen and cuts an inch of leaf from the plant in the window. Small thing, given by one of the girls from work-- she’s used it before, cutting off a wedge and squeezing the gel onto whatever minor cuts or burns she has, but Craig takes his time with it. Places it on a cutting board and slices away the tip and rough edges as she smiles indulgently. A lengthwise cut, filleting, and he scoops the gel out with a spoon. Comes back with his bounty, slathering it across her chafed heels and still-tender toes.

“You get more gel out of it than I do,” she comments, finishing the last of the beer. Props her elbow on the armrest, resting her chin on her knuckles.

“Learned from my ma.” He trails his fingers through it, ticklish-cool. Bitter green scent to it, too mild for offense. “Could make a little jar for you, if you want. Keeps a couple weeks in the fridge.”

“That’d be heavenly.”

He kisses her feet again, wiping his hands on his shirt. Takes her empty bottle and puts it beside the sink. Counter’s cleaner than when she left this morning, now that she’s got the time to notice. Not quite at prewar show kitchen levels, not with the chipped laminate, but still-- much nicer.

When he kneels by her feet again, she asks, “Would you like me to take care of that?” and gestures to his cock, still half-hard and bulging beneath the thick denim of his jeans.

“I’m alright,” he says, mild as milk. “You had a long day. ‘Mglad to take care of you.”

“Good boy.”

 


	5. The Jacobstown Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig rides the big green ween. (And Carla lovingly fists him!)

Carla keeps the bundle of letters in the dresser at home-- paper crinkled on the edges, handwriting large and square, pressed heavy into the paper. Marcus seems like a nice enough man, but there’s so much more beyond _letters_ to know someone.

Craig is maddeningly vague about Marcus. Says he’s alright-- though surely he must be more than ‘alright’ to make Craig consider this thing-- but whenever Carla asks why Marcus specifically, her boy sweats and blushes fit to match his hat, mumbling, “He’s… big.”

Walking up the long trail to Jacobstown, past a herd of peacefully grazing bighorners, Carla has time to reconsider this adventure. Playing with Swank and Craig is always fun, but she _knows_ Swank. And this time, they’re in Marcus’ home, it’s her first time meeting him, and…

Well. She’ll have to trust Craig’s judgment.

There are over half a dozen mutants in sight as they approach the gates, none wearing near enough clothes to protect them from the cold. Or do they not feel cold the way she does? She fingers the edge of her coat, slipping an arm around Craig for the easy comfort of his body against hers. Trying not to gawk at the impressive amount of muscle and flesh on display, and breathing in the sharp smell of clean snow and fresh pine.

But one of the men waves cheerfully, orange pauldron glinting in the wan sunlight, and makes his way over with a heavy tread. Carla’s not a small woman-- stands a few inches taller than Craig when she wears her heels, or dead even when she’s in flat boots like now-- but he positively _dwarfs_ her.

“Welcome to Jacobstown. Or welcome back, in your case, Craig,” he says, a smile making creases on that lumpy face. Not unattractive, she thinks-- especially not with that warmth in his voice-- but just. Well, big. “I am Marcus. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Carla. Nice to meet you too,” she replies, feeling her cheeks pink despite herself. She extends her hand to shake, swallows a chuckle when he instead leans low to kiss the back of her knuckles. Nice to find a bit of showmanship this far from Vegas.

“If you’d like to come to the lodge to warm up…?”

Craig sneaks a sidelong peek at her, and she nods. Rather keep it in public for this first meeting.

Marcus stamps snow off his boots as he enters, and Craig follows suit. Carla elects to do a more dainty scuff on the worn entry mat while Marcus busies himself at a stove. “Drinks?” he asks.

“Cocoa, please,” Carla says firmly. Thinks a buttered rum might be lovely if they have the fixings, but she’d rather save the alcohol for _after_ playtime. If they choose to play after all.

Marcus stirs milk over the stove with a wooden spoon before turning to open the cabinet. Craig moves in behind Marcus, easy as a pup tumbling in its master’s steps, and takes over stirring. Taps the spoon against the side of the pot, and Carla notes Marcus’ lack of surprise when the mutant turns back with three mugs in his hand. Marcus sets them in a row on the counter, a light thud of ceramic on wood, and takes a small glass jar of cocoa powder from the communal pantry. Well, ‘small’ in a super mutant’s hand, at least. Still bigger than Carla’s doubled fists.

Carla seats herself on a high stool, smoothing her long skirt about her legs. Even with the leggings beneath, she’s chilly. Crosses her ankles tight, resists the urge to bury her hands between her knees.

Neither man is the type for idle chatter, so she allows herself to observe. Marcus could fill a door frame and blot out the sun with his shoulders. But holds himself gentle, tamping the space about him to fit rather than spilling himself all over. She thinks she sees the shape of what Craig likes in him. Not enough to calm the cazador-jitters in her belly, but at least a start. She can watch them play without having to get involved herself. Not that she’s shy, but she never considered propositioning a mutant before.

Well, _Craig_ did the propositioning, but they come as a unit.

When Craig starts ladling the cocoa into the mugs, Marcus offers her the first drink. She waits until the other two have their drinks in hand before sipping though. Lets out a contented sigh, letting the steam wreathe her face. The smell alone warms her to her bones.

“That’s lovely, thank you.”

“Nice to have some guests around here,” Marcus rumbles, leaning against the counter. “Safe trip?”

Carla and Marcus go through the niceties of conversation, letting her dear boy sit there and drink cocoa as she tries to feel out the mutant. Nice, yes-- _big_ , yes. Warm and friendly, for all that he could cradle her skull like an egg.

And a very _large_ tongue she realizes, sipping from her mug and glancing at him over the chipped rim. She might not be interested in all the oversized portions of his anatomy, but that tongue? Maybe.

“So Craig’s told me a bit of what he likes about you,” she says, licking milk-foam from her upper lip. Sets her mug down and leans forward to smile at Marcus. “What do you like about him?”

“He’s cute.” An oversized grin, like the summer moon over the Mojave. “A little small, sure,” he says, patting Craig’s head and squashing that beret down over his eyes so that Carla has to fight the giggles, “but cute. And seems like he obeys orders well?” An uptilt turns it from statement to question, pale eyes searching.

“He does,” Carla admits. “One of the things I like about him too.” She spreads her fingers, palms turned up. “I know we’ve talked a bit in the letters,” she says, voice steady even as she curses herself for babbling, “but I would like to check and see if anything has changed. What are you interested in?” More clinical than she’d like, but this is only their first encounter. Cocoa can only thaw so much.

Marcus chuckles, releasing Boone’s shoulder and leaning with his forearms on the table. “As long as my cock gets played with, I’m pretty easy-going. I’m not much into being tied up or receiving pain though.”

“Giving?” Carla asks.

“Not my kink usually, but happy to give if the other person likes it.”

Carla nods and straightens up, resting her fingers on the back of Craig’s neck. “I like watching and giving orders.”

“Any titles?”

“‘Miss Carla’ will do.” She tilts her head, bumping against the soft fold of Craig’s hat. “I’d prefer not to be touched unless I initiate it.” Marcus nods like he was expecting this all along, and she hides her sigh of relief by turning to Craig. “Baby?”

Craig ducks his chin, mumbling into his chest. “I’d really like to get…” and his voice trails as he mimes poking a finger into his curled fist.

“He’d like to get a good pounding,” Carla translates.

To his credit, Marcus manages not to choke on the last of his cocoa, instead finishing with a long gulp. “I think I can manage that.” Dares a smile in return, thumb on the handle of his mug and revolving it slowly. “If I get to watch you, ah, prepare him?”

“I think I can manage that,” Carla teases back, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Easier to relax with all the rules of play nicely laid out. “Is there somewhere we can wash up first though? I’ve got trail grit stuck behind my knees and everywhere else. Bit of a mood-killer.”

“One of the bungalows is set up with running water. Would you prefer to be left alone, or…?”

Carla tilts her head, not watching Marcus-- sweetly attentive, leaning forward but still so careful not to get into her personal space-- but instead the jerk of Craig’s head, the way he swallows a nod and his eyes light up with pathetic eagerness.

“Why don’t we all wash up?” she asks.

Craig beams like he swallowed the moon.

 

* * *

 

 

The disused bungalow would be a nice space if it were a bit closer to Vegas-- running water, solid furniture and less dust than she expected. An attempt at housecleaning for the expected guests? She claims first shower as a lady’s privilege and tasks Craig with laying out a towel and fresh clothing. Knows it means Marcus will be getting an eyeful of her knickers, but not her _in_ them. A nice sort of torment, if he’s so inclined.

It would be very tempting to spend at least a quarter hour in the shower, let the warm water sluice away all her tension and drip through her hair, but it would be cruel to make the boys wait too long. So she limits herself to a thorough sudsing with a fresh bar of pale soap, hints of vetiver and earth lingering on her skin. Green and smoky on the back of her nose, a little too masculine for her tastes but it smells nice enough. She towels herself off and cracks the door open just enough for Craig to slip her clothing through. Black lace panties with tiny rhinestones-- not her favorite, but it matches the bra at least. She shimmies them over her still-damp skin, then leans forward to let her breasts fall into the cups of her bra before fastening it in place. A yellow dress over the whole thing-- not her favorite either, alas, she has one in coral that makes her skin glow, but at least she won’t shed a tear if this one gets stained-- and she finger-combs her damp hair. Craig slipped a tube of plum-red lipstick in the folds of her dress, so she takes mercy on the silent plea and pouts in the mirror, applying a generous coat and smacking her lips together. Nudges a stray smudge of color and blots on the back of her wrist before washing her hands. There. Perfect.

When she steps out of the bathroom, Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed, Craig on a chair near him-- body angled towards the mutant, desperate want clear in every line of his form, from the strain in his neck to the vibrating twitch of his feet.

“Craig, why don’t you help Marcus into the shower?”

“Yes’m.”

And it’s nice to watch him fuss and fumble at Marcus, fingers slipping across the leather straps and unbuckling him from his armor. Craig rests his hand on Marcus’ chest, palm flat, while struggling with the zip on Marcus’ pants. A few awkward tugs, his cheeks pink, and Marcus takes pity and undoes his trousers himself. Marcus slips his fingers under Craig’s shirt, exposing a thin strip of skin, but pauses to look at Carla. She nods permission and Marcus rucks up Craig’s shirt with one hand, plucking his glasses and beret with the other. He sets them aside on the dresser before dropping Craig’s shirt to the floor. Tongue sticking out between his teeth now, it’s his turn to navigate Craig’s pants-- more successfully than Craig’s efforts with Marcus’, since it’s the work of only a few moments before Craig’s shivering in his thin briefs, half-hard and squirming beneath their attention.

And Marcus… well. Carla was expecting him to be big-- or at least proportional to the rest of him-- but it’s still something else to see the weight of his cock slap against his thigh and the way Craig reaches out to touch his fingers across the tip. (Circumcised-- which fails to surprise her. She’s slept with a few Vault-bred boys before and knows enough not to gawk.) Looks even bigger considering Marcus has no body hair-- and Carla doesn’t know why _that_ surprises her, not when she’s seen nothing in the way of eyebrows or facial hair on him or any other mutant-- but hungry curiosity squirms in her belly now. Still no interest in trying to take that in herself, but… could be _very_ nice to see Craig try.

Craig tugs Marcus’ hand over his shoulder and leads the way to the bathroom. Steps over the edge of the tub and near-straddles the faucet as Marcus follows after. The bathtub’s small to begin with, even smaller with two men in it, and _especially_ so with Marcus, but it’s a comfortable sort of snug. Craig brushes into Marcus belly when adjusting the shower dial, and Carla catches a glimpse of Marcus’ hand over the edge of the curtain as Marcus takes the showerhead. The broken sprinkle-drip of water maps the edges of their skin and where they meet together, though Carla can see maddeningly little through the semi-opaque curtain.

Still, she does what she can.

“Marcus, please wash my boy’s back.”

“Yes, Miss Carla,” Marcus replies, and she sees a green blur through the curtain as he lathers Craig’s back. Even catches her boy’s gasp, a glimpse of his fingers as he presses them flat against the wall. She reaches around the curtain-- not enough of a voyeur to ogle more blatantly, since watching them have sex is all right, but it seems a new level of intimacy to watch them bathe-- and laces her fingers over his. Squeezes, and he squeezes back.

“Craig, baby, your turn to wash Marcus. I expect to see him in your mouth, so make sure you do a good job.”

“ _Yes_ Miss Carla,” Craig says, nearly a yip as the blur changes and he releases her hand. Less to watch, but Carla listens to her boy’s apologetic mumble as he moves from chest to belly and groin, then Marcus’ chuckle as he encourages Craig, “It’s not that fragile. You can touch it.”

“Not too much touching until I can watch too,” Carla insists.

Marcus twitches the curtain aside just enough to beam out at her, water dripping down his shoulders as he grins. “Understood.”

A final rinse and Carla has towels waiting for them. She passes the first to Craig through the haze of steam and soapy fragrance, and nibbles her lower lip as she watches him rub over Marcus’ body, moving in slow circles to blot water from the bigger man. Too short to reach Marcus’ neck and shoulders thoroughly, but Carla passes Marcus another towel.

Marcus is decidedly more brisk than Craig, a quick rub across the back of his neck and under his arms to dry what Craig couldn’t reach, and then he starts drying Craig. Still rougher than Craig was with him, but gentler than how he dried himself. Craig arches into the towel, butting himself against Marcus’ hand and biting the edge of his lip. Little squirmy motions, eyes half-lidded and watching Carla.

Carla nibbles the inside of her lip, careful not to bite her lipstick, a tiny jolt of pain to ground herself in the moment and clear her head. “I think he’s ready to play, don’t you?” she asks Marcus, moving her gaze over Craig’s head.

“I think so too. Should we even bother getting dressed?”

She tosses a grin over her shoulder, turning so her skirt twirls loose about her knees. “You know… _no_. I rather like being the only one fully clothed.”

“As you like.” Marcus bends at the knees as he steps out of the tub, scooping Craig up in a bridal carry so Craig’s head rolls against his shoulder. Craig’s carnation-pink, toes wiggling and feet dangling as he presses his cheek into Marcus’ chest. Cute, very cute. “Where would you like us?”

“Bed seems comfortable enough,” she says, opening the pack they’ve brought and pulling out a bottle of oil-- new bottle, a little bigger than what they’ve gotten before since Carla still harbors doubts on how much Craig can _really_ accommodate-- and leaving the toys nestled at the bottom. Plenty of time for those later if they extend their stay. “If you want to watch, do you want to be by his head or near me?”

“Could suck you,” Craig offers, a gracious mumble against Marcus’ neck.

“Well, that decided me. Head it is!”

Carla lays down an extra blanket-- god, there’ll be such a mess if they do this right. Their own version of the three-body problem now, navigating an undersized bed with two humans and a mutant. Marcus pushes a pillow against the wall, cushioning his lower back as he sits on the edge of the bed with his shoulders leaning into the wall. Craig slots himself between Marcus’ legs on his hands and knees, dipping forward with a forearm braced against Marcus’ thigh and an elbow on the bed. Legs spread invitingly, so Carla fits herself behind him on her knees, lifting her skirt to avoid kneeling on it and keenly aware of just how _big_ Marcus is as she tries not to knock into his knees, his calves extending past her. His hand spans the entirety of Craig’s back, resting his palm between the shoulders and scritching his thumb behind Craig’s ear.

Carla would order Craig to start sucking Marcus’ cock, except her boy already dove into it with gusto. A sloppy lick, head moving up the shaft and wrapping a hand around the base in a loose fist. Marcus was big even flaccid, but watching him swell makes Carla’s clit tingle with a mix of awe and apprehension. Too big for Craig to fully wrap his fingers around, hand twisting. Thinks of offering him a squirt of oil to cover what his mouth can’t-- god, his cheeks must be bulging something ridiculous-- but Craig pulls his mouth off with a slick pop and spits into his palm, rubbing generously about the shaft.

“Please, finger me? I’d like both of you in me,” Craig says, plea muffled as he starts sucking Marcus’ cock again.

So Carla takes the oil and pours it into her palm. A vaguely floral scent, soft and muddled as she slides her fingers through it. Leaves the bottle on the nearby dresser, cap off for easy access. Squeezes Craig’s ass with an oil-slick hand and rubs two fingers in the cleft of his buttocks, spreading the cool oil about his body. Messy, messy this-- but she prefers when it’s so wet he _squelches_ , rather than using ‘just enough’ for penetration. A teasing stroke, pressing the pad of her finger to Craig’s entrance, and he bucks back so that Marcus warns, “Careful with the teeth.”

“‘Msorry,” Craig mumbles, kissing Marcus’ cock.

“Work your tongue on the vein there, and I think I can forgive-- yes, like that.” Marcus gives a long sigh of contentment, eyes fluttering shut. Carla takes the opportunity to watch his face, sliding a finger into Craig’s ass. A familiar enough motion she hardly needs to wait for Craig’s reaction, his body opening up for her with an easy comfort so that she slides up to the second knuckle without the least bit of resistance.

Marcus is a treat to watch. Something about his parted mouth, eyes still closed, makes him look more vulnerable. Tender, even with that jaw. Jaw like that makes her think of the old joke about giving a lady somewhere to sit.

Second finger now, sliding beside the first. God he’s warm, squeezes tight about her as she rocks her fingers into him. Tiny thrusting motion, like a little cock-- she never mastered the knack of finger-fucking with her palm resting against her clit, trying to get herself off with the same motion that’s fucking her partner, but she rubs her other hand smooth over the front of her skirt. Ignores the oil that soaks into the fabric, just works a gentle circle over her clit. Nice to watch her fingers sliding in and out of him, nicer to touch herself while watching.

“Ever used a strap-on with him?” Marcus asks, cracking his eyes open. Watching her lazy and content, with occasional praise for Craig as he does something especially nice. Broad hands splayed over his thighs, letting Craig set the pace for the blowjob.

Carla nods, pulling her hands off her clit and out of Craig. He moans protest around Marcus’ cock, but she murmurs, “Easy, baby. Gonna get more oil,” and he subsides.

“Isn’t that a lovely thought. Could be fun to take turns on him,” Marcus offers.

Carla laughs low and fluting. “Could be.” Pours another puddle of oil into her palm, rubbing her hands together and coating every finger, slicking down her wrist and forearm. Her two fingers slide back in so easy it’s shameless, so she adds a third now. Not much resistance, him relaxed and rocking back onto her as he continues sucking Marcus. She bites her lip now, forgetting about the lipstick. Thinks about adding a fourth finger now-- a fist? A quick glance at Marcus’ cock makes her think that might not be so impossible, not if Craig really wants to take him in.

She’d still rather take it slow though, make him sweat. Breathes hot against his shoulders as she leans into him, skirt settling over the back of his legs and reaching under him. Conscious of how leaning forward gives Marcus a view down her cleavage, so she squeezes her elbows about her bosom to really work the angle. She wraps her oil-slick hand around the base of Craig’s cock, tugging up and into his belly, knowing that playing with his cock gives her a little more leeway in the back. She’s rewarded by his relaxation and the savor of skin on skin, her thighs on his and the way his sweat sticks them together. Leans to the left so she can reach better, bumping her knee into Marcus’ calf. God, they both radiate heat like a furnace, like to roast her in her skin-- easy to forget the snow outside when things are heating up like this. A hazy cut-grass smell in the air, like soap and lust and soft masculinity.

“Okay, baby. I’m going to try for a fourth finger,” she breathes across his skin, puckering her lips to blow cool air down his spine. “Ready?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Marcus says, winking at Carla. “Squeeze my hand. Once for yes, twice for--” and he laughs when Craig squeezes and holds tight, white-knuckled grip small and fragile in Marcus’ palm. “Think that’s a yes. How many does he usually take?”

Carla pauses before answering, taking the time to wiggle her pinky alongside the others. Curving slightly, bundling her fingers, and her thumb fits so perfectly in the dip of her hand she’s tempted to try fisting _now_. But patience has its rewards-- keeps Craig excited, helps him take more. “Two or three. I’ve put my whole hand in before, but…”

Marcus catches the hesitation in her voice and lifts his hand as if to touch her cheek before remembering the rules. She felt the weight of his shadow, no more. “To be clear, I’m happy as long as I get my dick played with. If we don’t fit, no worries.”

“Still fun to try at least,” Carla says, pushing forward so Craig dips lower on Marcus. Craig’s relaxed now, practically begging for more as she rearranges her fingers, now flat like a wave as she squeezes his cock. Tickles down low over his balls, fine hairs whisper-soft against her fingertips and his belly jolting at her touch. Leans back to admire the way he looks with her fingers in him, the stretch and how dark her hand looks against these parts of him that never see daylight. A shared tenderness, a softness and trust.

But she’s going to get a crick in her neck at this rate.

“Honey, I’m going to go for my whole hand. Means I’m going to let go of your cock for a bit, okay?”

A happy moan, rising happier as Marcus says, “I can take care of that.” His enormous hand brushes her elbow as she moves her arm, resting her hand on the dip of Craig’s back, where she can brace herself and read the tension in his body. His muscles sing, if you only know the melody.

And watching Marcus reach that impossibly long arm around Craig’s shoulder, skimming over the belly to jack Craig off even as Craig gives him head-- wow. A sight to savor, a memory to blend with the sticky heat of her dress on the back of her legs and the sweat dewing Craig’s shoulders.

“Need more lube?” she asks, feeling Craig throb on her fingers, an out-of-sync jostle between her and Marcus.

Two squeezes on Marcus’ thigh, Craig spreading his knees wider and she exhales loud and gusty through puckered lips, tucking her thumb and working in a slow rotation, twisting, aching--

She loves the way his body pulses in waves, the smooth slide of her fingers until she reaches the knuckles and then the tight ring of his sphincter halting her progress. So she stops there, not pushing but fluttering her fingers, curling as much as she can in the slippery warmth of his body. Craig moans against Marcus’ cock, and Marcus lifts a heavy hand to pet down Craig’s back. Soothing, praising, soft encouragement on his lips before his hand brushes Carla’s. He stops, but she taps a finger across his knuckles. Winks, flushed and giddy as she feels Craig relax and she finally slips her knuckles into him.

“It’s okay to touch my hand. I like it. And I think Craig likes it too-- he practically sucked my fist in.” Not even a fib, not even much of an exaggeration, but now she’s in to her wrist and Craig might just squeeze her bones to jelly if he gets any more excited.

Marcus grunts, lifting his hips-- rocks Craig back on her hand, dear boy gasping around his cock and back trembling as they push him to and fro, each gentle dip of her hand setting him farther down Marcus’ shaft, while each of Marcus’ thrusts slides Craig down her forearm. Hot, slick, his ass is so _welcoming_ past the initial tightness and she starts to think maybe this will work after all…

“If my arm fits, I think your cock will,” she says, a gusty exhale as she spreads her fingers curving in search of the prostate. Not that she needs her whole _hand_ to find it, and tucks her hand into an actual fist once she does, but rubbing the meaty pad of her palm over it makes him such a delightfully squirmy mess. God, she worried about being too rough at first-- but feels like he’s going to swallow her whole, thrusting back on her more than she’s trying to push into him. Wet heat and slick on her arm, his moans sweet in the air and so flushed even his neck and the ears turn pink.

“Ready?” Marcus asks, and Carla’s not sure who he’s addressing with his eyes soft on her but his hand resting on Craig’s back.

“If Craig is.”

“Unh.” He pops his head up, lips puffy and shining. “Yeah. Feeling real good.”

Carla pulls out of him with a twist of her wrist, making him gasp and cling tight to Marcus as her knuckles reappear one by one with all the ease of a well-done magic trick. When Craig sits up on his knees, twisting over his shoulder to give her a soft smile, she kisses the back of his shoulder. Feels the back of Marcus’ hand pressed firm on her belly, still resting on Craig’s skin. Little mutant sandwich.

“Here. Want to hear you squelch,” she murmurs, so close she feeds him tiny kisses with every word, dotting him with specks of plum lipstick. Passes the bottle of oil into his ready hand and sits back in a sweaty tangle of skirts to watch him pour it all over his hands and Marcus’ cock, a slip-drip of extravagant waste but there’s no such thing as too much lube. Especially not for anything that big going up Craig’s ass.

Marcus dips his head, pausing with his lips one breath from the crown of Craig’s head. “Beg pardon. May I…?”

“If you use full sentences and address me as ‘Miss Carla,’” she says, biting her lower lip. Twists her grin to something a little softer and more coquettish, still navigating this muddled landscape of something so new. God, but it’s nice to have someone so big at her command. So gentle there’s no danger to him, just the giddy thrill of ordering him around.

He chuckles, tracing the edge of a gnawed thumbnail over the back of Craig’s neck. “Miss Carla, may I kiss your boy?” Shoulders so broad that it’s impossible to miss the little hitch of tension as he asks, even with his voice so warm and easy.

“You certainly may. I like seeing him kissed. And he likes it too,” she adds cheekily, squeezing Craig’s ass. A hint of tooth on his shoulder now as she nibbles along the shoulder blade and tickles her tongue over the line of his spine. He trembles like a plucked string, turning taut and pushing upward to meet Marcus’ lips pressed dry over his stubbled scalp.

“Please, somebody fuck me,” he grunts, grabbing Marcus’ bicep and almost losing his grip--perhaps such a thing as too much lube after all-- as he tumbles forward with his cheek pressed to the wall of Marcus’ chest. Marcus responds by squeezing his hands under Craig’s ass, so big he can wrap his whole hand around Craig’s thighs if he had a mind to, and lifts up and towards him. Craig hisses through his teeth, thighs relaxing and spreading himself to wrap his heels around Marcus’ hips. A broad straddle, so wide he must be aching, but when Marcus lowers him to meet his cock it slips, green dick poking between Craig’s legs.

Carla leans forward, one hand splayed on the blanket for support and the other gripping firm about the base of Marcus’ cock. Wasn’t sure what she was expecting-- something harder, warmer than human, perhaps? But no, this part of Marcus is no more strange than the rest of him, once she gets used to the scale. Strokes up, her palm sliding over a vein running along the underside of the shaft, and coaxes his cock into position. Watches it press against Craig’s wet hole, her boy letting out a soft “ _oh_ ” as it finally eases in.

“Thank you, Miss Carla. Much obliged,” Marcus says, kissing the top of Craig’s head again as he works him up and down, small wriggles that must hardly feel like much to the big man but make Craig smother a whimper into his shoulder.

“C’mon baby, you can take it. How’s it feeling?” Carla asks, resting her hands on the soft folds where Craig’s torso meets his hips, so close her wrists brush Marcus’ as he moves Craig up and down.

“Good. _Real_ good. Fuck, I… _fuck_!” An inarticulate explosion, open hand slapping Marcus’ chest as he finally sinks all the way down, Marcus’ balls pressed against his ass. “That’s all in? Holy…”

Marcus’ laugh rumbles all through the bungalow. “All in. Been a long time since I met a human who could take it all.”

“Want to relax there for a bit, or ready for a ride?” Carla asks, sitting back to admire the view.

“Ready.” Craig adjusts to somewhere between kneeling and standing, and Marcus obliges by slouching back against the wall, bumping Craig back into Carla. One hand on Marcus’ shoulder, the other clawing over Marcus’ ribs as Craig starts moving, a hard riding rhythm more rapid than anything Marcus was expecting judging by the green man’s surprised grunt.

Carla stays behind Craig, hands sliding all over his sides, his back, the jutting blades of his shoulders. Tempted to reach around and stroke his cock but Craig’s going so damn fast she’s afraid to break the tempo. He’s so quiet too-- must have his teeth clenched together, puffing exhalations as he pushes himself down with a wet slap of flesh on flesh. Hard thrusts, Marcus rising to meet him and groaning, bucking, while her boy’s gasps comes in fits and starts. Riding an edge between too much and not enough, the way Craig hisses.

“Go, baby, go!” she cheers into his shoulder, with a sharp bite-- just one, a quick and easy release to mark him with a smear of lipstick and teeth. Oh, to see his face-- but she can still map the tension in his shoulders, the heave of his chest and his body shining with sweat and oil. Has traced paths all over the landscape of his body, fingers walking pilgrims’ progress.

His whole body’s shaking, his normal quiet exchanged for a soft “oh god, oh god” pressed behind his teeth. Thighs trembling, shaking, and she slaps his ass to watch the dimples jiggle. Spurs him on, rising and sinking in pulsing waves.

“Watch it, Marcus-- he slows down when he gets close,” she warns, pinching Craig just below the swell of his buttocks to make him yelp high and shrill. “Don’t let him.”

“I don’t slow down,” Craig mumbles, daring to protest even as his body betrays that yes, yes he does when he lingers on the downward slide along Marcus’ cock.

“You are such a fucking liar,” Marcus says affectionately, his hands bumping into Carla’s as he adjusts his grip. “Let’s go, little man.”

And Carla almost winces sympathy as Marcus takes over, pushing harder, faster, rougher-- not that she hasn’t ridden Craig damn hard herself, but there’s a world of difference between doing so with her own strap-on and watching that immense pillar of flesh going into her boy. But Craig’s still moaning, somewhere between obscenity and prayer and clawing desperately at Marcus. Then dropping his hand, elbow jutting and whispering, “ _Please_ , Miss Carla, may I…?”

“You may blow when he is ready.”

“I’m damn close, if you don’t mind…”

Carla swallows a laugh at Marcus’ words. Craig starts jerking himself hard, rutting into his clenched fist like his life depends on it, and a strangled _“oh god_ ” as scant warning before a spurt of semen hits Marcus’ belly. The mutant pulls back his lips, grunting and coming with a last thrust into Craig’s body. Still breathing hard through his mouth, noisy as a bighorner.

“Aren’t you two a sight. Makes me wish I had a camera,” Carla says, proud and exhausted. Thighs slick with her own arousal, but no attention needed-- makes her want to pick up smoking again just so she can light a cig with vicarious satisfaction.

Craig gives a wordless whimper as Marcus lifts him slow and gentle, pulling him off his cock with a wet pop. Still dripping fluids everywhere, cheeks rosy and jaw slack. Marcus kisses him on the lips, a light probe of his tongue before closing Craig’s mouth with a nudge of his finger under her boy’s chin.

“Baby, do you want a shower?”

Marcus pats his fingers on Craig’s shoulders, hearty enough to be a slap from anyone else. “Forget a shower. Might need a hose.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“To rinse him off again? Sure.” He takes her hand, pressing his lips chaste and polite-- so she laughs and leans forward, nose bumping his before giving him a kiss decidedly longer and less chaste. Marked him as much as Craig now, lipstick-brands on Marcus’ face and Craig’s shoulder. He touches his thumb to the smear of color, smiling crooked and warm. “Shame to wash this off.”

“I can give you both a second set after the shower.”

She changes her underwear and washes her hands, then applies a fresh coat of lipstick while the boys shower. Smudges them bright and bold across their cheeks, bustling around the little kitchen when Marcus points out the liquor cabinet and offers to bring butter and spices from the lodge-- a kindness she immediately accepts, rewarding him with another bright plum kiss when he returns.

Craig cuddles into Marcus’ lap as she mixes the butter and brown sugar, loose-limbed and content. No cloves, but at least there’s cinnamon and nutmeg; much better luck than she was expecting to find out here. Fills the kitchen with soft heat and scent. And when drinks are ready, Marcus’ lap is big enough for two.


End file.
